Simple math: an empty house + 2 pillows + a vintage pink ballerina blanket + the couch
+ an overcast afternoon x myself = the most perfect nap since 2003.
The solemn onyx face of night peering in my bedroom window, a full moon caught in her teeth.
Succulent bites of browned chicken, coconut milk and red thai curry ladled over sticky rice.
"Our success in this war is often measured by the things that did not happen. "
from The State of the Union speech 1/22/07
The dazzling intensity of my daughter and her boyfriend,
sitting side by side in the sun
and touching one another with their eyes.
"Elia, pack your knives and go."
After weeks of winter gloom, naked trees raising their arms up
through unexpected sunlight as if hoisting the sky back into place.
Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap.
And the kids I work with:
JT's hopeful, 3-year-old assessment of the future: "Soon I will be bigger.
And then, I'll get a bigger head. And then, I will be the boss of me."
Pansy, climbing onto my lap with her sticky hands and milky breath,
sighing, "Don't worry, I hold you."
And Mia, twirling around on the sidewalk behind the building - all stick-thin limbs
and swinging hair - shouting, "Look everybody! Everything is beautiful!"
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Friday, January 05, 2007
Directives
Leaving work late each night, I am mostly alone on the streets of my town.
Until recently, I was absolutely phobic about driving - I could scarcely go down
my own driveway at high noon - so these nightly excursions never feel routine.
In fact, the darkness, the empty streets and my own solitude often coalesce into
something almost holy, lending unexpected weight to the idea of going home.
There are mileposts along my nightly route, rain or shine they remain fairly constant
and serve to reassure me I'm still heading the right way.
My favorites are the people.
Rounding the final corner of main street, there is the hood guy, rushing toward town with his face eternally obscured and his hands flailing gloveless in the coldest of weather.
Crossing near St. Vincent de Paul, the old dog-walker takes his time, leaning forward as if he drags a great weight instead of his little, matted mutt.
The shiny-vest people sometimes carry sticks, or slack white bages that flutter as they walk.
They appear near the empty lot, or the sign for the cemetary, and always walk single file with the woman in the lead.
Once I leave downtown proper, the written word appears. I pass the Mongolian Palace,
Until recently, I was absolutely phobic about driving - I could scarcely go down
my own driveway at high noon - so these nightly excursions never feel routine.
In fact, the darkness, the empty streets and my own solitude often coalesce into
something almost holy, lending unexpected weight to the idea of going home.
There are mileposts along my nightly route, rain or shine they remain fairly constant
and serve to reassure me I'm still heading the right way.
My favorites are the people.
Rounding the final corner of main street, there is the hood guy, rushing toward town with his face eternally obscured and his hands flailing gloveless in the coldest of weather.
Crossing near St. Vincent de Paul, the old dog-walker takes his time, leaning forward as if he drags a great weight instead of his little, matted mutt.
The shiny-vest people sometimes carry sticks, or slack white bages that flutter as they walk.
They appear near the empty lot, or the sign for the cemetary, and always walk single file with the woman in the lead.
Once I leave downtown proper, the written word appears. I pass the Mongolian Palace,
"Home of the Horseshoe Bar" and the thrift store where this week "Utinsiles are buy one,
get one free". The bowling alley has a big reader board, burning like a beacon at the
edge of town. The messages change frequently, and on foggy nights, appear abruptly
as if shoved before me by some spectral sage:
Get your game on.
Be Safe. Be Sane. Don't be a Statistic.
IT'S A NEW YEAR - HAVE A BALL!
Once I leave town the road opens up, pouring me into the waiting woods,
where I am embraced by the trees that guard my path. Scattered meadows
shine like pools when the moon is out, and on frosty nights,
as if shoved before me by some spectral sage:
Get your game on.
Be Safe. Be Sane. Don't be a Statistic.
IT'S A NEW YEAR - HAVE A BALL!
Once I leave town the road opens up, pouring me into the waiting woods,
where I am embraced by the trees that guard my path. Scattered meadows
shine like pools when the moon is out, and on frosty nights,
flash their diamonds as I pass.
Few lamps are lit in the houses I see, all is quiet, and this quiets me.
I feel privileged in these moments, bouyed up by a beautiful,
mysterious joy I scarcely recognize.
The last business I pass going home each night is a small convenience store -
family owned for many years. There is a covered porch on the front of the store,
where old-timers have gathered for decades now, drinking coffee and telling tales.
Two summers ago, a long-time customer (who'd stopped taking his Clozapine)
pulled a gun from his car and shot the owner - killing him on his own front porch
in front of his family and friends.
The hand written messages that once told his story have long since been replaced
by posters for beer and 2% milk because business - like life - must go on.
But I remember the words that hung above that store for months after he was buried
and gone and, while I am not much given to prayer, they often serve as mine
as I turn toward my own destination:
Few lamps are lit in the houses I see, all is quiet, and this quiets me.
I feel privileged in these moments, bouyed up by a beautiful,
mysterious joy I scarcely recognize.
The last business I pass going home each night is a small convenience store -
family owned for many years. There is a covered porch on the front of the store,
where old-timers have gathered for decades now, drinking coffee and telling tales.
Two summers ago, a long-time customer (who'd stopped taking his Clozapine)
pulled a gun from his car and shot the owner - killing him on his own front porch
in front of his family and friends.
The hand written messages that once told his story have long since been replaced
by posters for beer and 2% milk because business - like life - must go on.
But I remember the words that hung above that store for months after he was buried
and gone and, while I am not much given to prayer, they often serve as mine
as I turn toward my own destination:
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for everything.
bs
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